


All the little lights

by Call_Me_Kayyyyy (Cheeky9274), Flowerparrish, Huntress79



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Awkward Flirting, Coffee as Flirting, First Date, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rivals to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26930014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheeky9274/pseuds/Call_Me_Kayyyyy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huntress79/pseuds/Huntress79
Summary: Bucky owns a locally famous bakery in Brooklyn. Sam owns the locally renowned coffee shop next door. At first, they hate each other, but then... well, then they realize they don't actually hate each other at all.Featuring flirting with coffee and baked goods, a dollop of awkwardness, and some cute firsts.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 46
Kudos: 136
Collections: Sambucky Big Bang 2020





	All the little lights

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my two artists, Kay and Huntress, for the amazing art and cheerleading of this fic (and endless patience with me as life tried to get in the way of me finishing it). I 100% couldn't have done it without them, and they absolutely kept me inspired. Both of you, your art is FANTASTIC, thank you for the effort you gave to this story along with me. 
> 
> Also, thanks to the mod of SamBucky Big Bang for pulling our awesome group together and running an amazing event. Your hard work is so appreciated, and I'm sorry the fic is done so late.

[ ](https://images2.imgbox.com/e3/83/gZgYt7fs_o.png)

Five am is Bucky’s favorite time of day. The kitchen is full of the smell of muffins baking in one of the ovens, blueberry today, and there’s freshly baked bagels cooling on the counter. He can’t freshly bake everything he sells, not every day—that would take space and staff he just doesn’t have. But he makes what he can, and when people line up outside the doors at seven am to get their hands on whatever’s just out of the oven, it feels… well, fucking amazing, honestly.

He looks sadly at his coffee pot, which is now empty. He needs to brew some for the store anyway (and he will, even if he knows there’s not much of a point), but he can’t help but wish for the coffee he knows he’ll get at seven am on the dot.

Not that he’d ever let Sam, owner of the coffee shop next door, know just how damn good his coffee is. It may be better than any fancy coffee Bucky buys for his own bakery, but Bucky will never give Sam and his smug face the satisfaction of the admission.

It’s just not how they are. They have a rivalry, because everyone knows Bucky’s bakery is the best in the borough, and everyone knows Sam’s coffee is likewise. That their shops are right next door to one another only heightens the rivalry.

For the first year after Sam opened, Bucky refused to set foot inside his shop, even after hearing the rave reviews for his coffee creations. Honestly, especially after that, because people would bring their coffee from Sam’s into Bucky’s bakery, which he found mind-bogglingly rude. It made him more than a little churlish, and the first time Sam came by, four months after he opened up, Bucky had been an ass. He doesn’t even remember what he said; he just remembers the tightening around Sam’s eyes, even as he’d resolutely insisted Bucky take the coffee he was offering because he’d heard Bucky’s machine was broken and waiting to be fixed.

Sam’s a nice guy. Bucky’s… not always the easiest to be around, and he knows it. But Sam’s also a troll, and so he kept coming back and offering Bucky coffee. Bucky, not to be one-upped, offered baked goods in return.

They both know how good they are. But neither of them will give the other the satisfaction of admitting it.

So now they take turns dropping off coffee or pastries in their trade. Today, Bucky just has to wait for Sam’s morning rush to calm down so he can bring over whatever caffeinated monstrosity he’s toying with.

He’s just putting the last of the scones—fresh today too—into the display case when he spies Sam through the window of the shop’s front door. Bucky glances at the clock; twelve minutes to seven, so the morning rush must have died down a little earlier than expected.

Sam unlocks it easily with one hand and bumps it open with his hip, and Bucky absolutely does not notice how attractive Sam is in tight, dark-wash jeans and a button-up shirt. As he gets closer, Bucky sees that they’re patterned with… sharks?

“Nice shirt,” Bucky says, and it’s a genuine compliment, but it’s couched in snark because he doesn’t know any other way to be when it comes to Sam.

Sam grins and glances down at it. “Yeah. Matthew got it for me for my birthday.”

Matthew, Bucky knows, is one of Sam’s nephews who lives over in Queens. Bucky isn’t sure when they became the kind of acquaintances—rivals? frenemies?—who knew about each other’s families. Just like Bucky knows Sam’s birthday was 3 weeks ago, on a day when he coincidentally made red velvet cupcakes. (When they became the kind of acquaintances who knew each other’s favorite coffee and cake flavors… well, he doesn’t know that either.)

“What’d you bring me?” Bucky asks, trying to distract from the revelation that he knows that much about Sam’s personal life, and to keep him from wondering how much Sam knows about his.

“Messing around with some new flavors,” Sam says. His eyes are a little knowing, his smile tugging up just a little further into something like a smirk, and Bucky feels absolutely nothing about it except annoyance. “This one’s a caramel coffee with coconut flavoring; let me know what you think.”

Sam hands it over, and Bucky takes the warm to-go cup with its coffee sleeve in his hand, fingers brushing Sam’s.

Bucky takes a sip of the coffee, feeling weirdly jittery for no reason he can place—so maybe he doesn’t need more caffeine, but damn if he’s going to admit that to Sam, and he has been craving Sam’s coffee since he woke up this morning.

Wakes up most mornings craving Sam’s coffee, if he’s honest. He makes a point to be honest with himself as little as possible, especially when it concerns Sam.

A startled hum-slash-moan escapes his lips as the taste of the almost too hot coffee registers, and Bucky’s eyes fall shut without his intent as he tries to reduce sensory input so he can focus all of his attention on savoring the taste of the coffee.

When he forces his eyes back open, another sip and another pleased hum later, Sam’s eyes are intent.

He must really be curious to know if the coffee’s good, Bucky thinks.

Normally, he’d pull some bullshit and offer a critique that Sam would take and somehow make the damn coffee inexplicably better. But there’s no better for this brew; it’s perfect, and he says so.

Bucky is bewildered when Sam’s lips purse like he’s unhappy with that answer. “Okay,” he says. “Better than the pumpkin one last fall?”

Bucky thinks back on the latte Sam had made when Bucky complained loudly about how no one ever made pumpkin spice lattes that foregrounded the pumpkin rather than the spice. And how it had been damn near perfect; by far the best pumpkin spice latte Bucky had ever had. How it had been nearly all he’d had to drink for a week straight.

That had, now that he thinks on it, been when they started texting. He’d had Sam’s number for a while at that point, and Sam had had his; there had been thefts in the area late in the summer, and they’d exchanged numbers in case anything came up.

But that was when they started texting for real, all because Bucky had to make sure to demand the right latte every morning before Sam could dare bring him something else.

It was the start of when they became something more like frenemies than enemies outright, the friend half becoming more and more important as time went on.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, blinking out of his thoughts to realize Sam’s still waiting on an answer. “It’s better than that. But, c’mon, it’s coconut—you know I love coconut.”

Sam’s expression clears a little at that. “Yeah,” he echoes, and his smile is warm but a little rueful. “I do know that.”

The silence that falls is heavy and a little awkward, and Bucky is no stranger to an awkward silence but he doesn’t usually have to suffer them with Sam. Usually when Sam’s here, the air between them is filled with banter and teasing and hot takes that aren’t hot so much as wrong when they come from Sam and right when they come from Bucky.

So Bucky clears his throat and gestures at the pastries. “Haven’t put the signs up yet, but there’s blueberry muffins that just came out in the last hour, or cinnamon raisin bagels baked fresh this morning too. Scones are plain but just out of the oven.”

Sam’s eyebrows go up. “Blueberry muffins and cinnamon bagels?”

It is only at that exact moment that Bucky realizes he has made not one, but two, of Sam’s favorite things on the same day. He huffs out a laugh that’s more air than sound. “Someone’s full of himself,” Bucky teases. “I can assure you, it’s just a lucky coincidence for you.”

Sam hums disbelievingly, but he doesn’t protest too much. Likely, this is because he knows that Bucky will hold the baked goods hostage until Sam is nice to him again. He’s a little shit like that, and proud of it.

“I’ll bring you another latte later if you let me have one of each,” Sam tells Bucky. Like they don’t both already know Bucky is going to give him anything he wants; like Sam doesn’t bring him another coffee in the afternoon, a couple of hours after lunch, every day before he leaves.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, a smirk on his face—the kind Steve would never believe Sam capable of making had he not seen Bucky draw this exact expression to the surface every time they’re in the same room. Steve thinks Sam is polite and charming and handsome. Which, okay, Sam is all of those things, but he’s also one of the few people who can match Bucky wit for wit, asshole comment for asshole comment. “You think your stuff is worth two free coffees in one day? Sounds like you might be the one who’s full of himself, Barnes.”

Bucky grumbles, a little annoyed but mostly just amused. “We both know how good I am,” he says, crossing his arms. “But fine, I’ll give you one now, and if you want the other, you can come back with more coffee later.”

“Wha—” Sam starts to protest, before he catches the way Bucky’s stern expression is cracking, the smile underneath coming through, unstoppable in the face of Sam’s indignation. “Oh, you dick,” he accuses. “See if you get your coffee now.”

“Mmhmm,” Bucky hums, but he pushes away from the counter and moves into the back, putting a couple of bagels and a couple of muffins in a small box for Sam. He brings it back out and hands it over. “I think you’ll find this more than covers the coffee.”

Sam takes in the box, feels the weight of it, and looks back up at Bucky with eyes that are a little intense in their focus. “So what’ll I owe you, then?”

Bucky’s mouth goes dry, and he has no idea why. He takes another sip of his amazing coffee to cover it, though, and clears his throat before saying, “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

Sam reaches out and squeezes Bucky’s arm, just a quick touch, before he’s pulled back and begins making his way to the door. When he glances back at Bucky, though, his expression is as warm as the melted chocolate in freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. “Let me know when you do.”

[ ](https://imgbox.com/KobhCxIn)

“You didn’t ask him out?!”

Steve doesn’t even sound incredulous, just somewhere at a crossroads between resigned and infuriated.

“I work next to him,” Bucky reminds Steve. “And I will have to continue working next to him if we went out and then broke up. So, no, I’m not going there.”

Steve pushes his way behind the counter, ignoring Bucky’s glare (a glare that he has been reliably and repeatedly informed is murderous in nature) so he can put his giant hands on either of Bucky’s shoulders and hold him still. Bucky contemplates looking anywhere but at Steve, just to be annoying, but then Steve would just wait, and Bucky would like Steve to stop touching him any moment now.

Bucky’s weird about touch. He doesn’t like it when strangers touch him, and it’s okay with friends most of the time—not that he’s got too many of those—and family—of which he has even less—but it doesn’t mean he enjoys it.

(His mind flashes back to that brief touch from Sam this morning, and how maybe there should be a caveat to the touching aversion. That he doesn’t enjoy it unless it’s Sam, and then he really, really does.)

“Stevie,” Bucky grits out, voice carefully even but jaw tense. “What.”

Steve sighs. “Buck, if I have to hear you moon over him any longer, I’m going to lose it. Please, for my sake, ask the poor man out.”

Bucky shrugs out of Steve’s grip and shoos him out from behind the counter. “I will take it under consideration,” he says finally.

Steve, knowing this is the best he’s going to get, says, “Can I have a scone, please?”

Bucky eyes him, suspicious. “Are you about to head next door for coffee? If yes, buy your damn scone there.”

No amount of whining on Steve’s part sways him. Steve leaves, scone-less, and Bucky feels momentarily vindicated.

Until he flashes back to this morning, and Sam’s warm eyes and teasing smirk, and he has to concede that maybe Steve has a point. Things are clearly going to come to a head sooner than later. Would asking Sam out and risking their friendship really be worse than waiting for Sam to ask him out, rejecting him, and ruining their easy camaraderie anyway?

He stews and glowers at the clock, waiting for three when Sam’s store closes and he brings Bucky fresh coffee before heading home. It’s only two twelve; he has almost an hour to figure his shit out.

The months it’s taken him up to this point are not an inspirational track record, true, but desperation has its pros as well as its cons.

[ ](https://imgbox.com/5YnBl24L)

Sam pushes into the store at three oh five, and Bucky feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin even though he hasn’t had a sip of caffeine since this morning. He hates this, the anxiety that fizzles in his head and chest and arms and stomach, turning him shaky and weak and hyper all at the same time.

Sam takes him in and says, “You’re off in a few, right? Why don’t you close up early.” He tries to make the suggestion sound casual, but Bucky can hear the concern underneath. Fuck. He hates it when he’s such an easy read.

“I’m fine.” It comes out terse.

“Sure,” Sam agrees. “But it’s a nice day out. We could walk to the park. Clint should be bringing Lucky over at some point, right?”

Ugh, of course, because Bucky’s friends are Sam’s friends now. And Sam’s way more fun and interesting and easy to talk to than Bucky is; Bucky’s going to lose all of his friends in the breakup except Steve, who will refuse to take sides on principle.

Bucky leans back against the counter, trying to look casual when really it’s just that he’s not sure his knees are going to continue holding his weight up if he doesn’t lock them in place. “Uh, sure. I guess.”

Sam smiles, looking pleased. “Cool. I can clean up this end while you do behind the counter.”

So they do. They close the store together, and they head out, and Bucky tries not to let his breath catch every time their shoulders brush together as they wander toward the park.

He’s so distracted he almost forgets to drink his coffee, the same amazing caramel and coconut drink from this morning.

“You want to talk about it?” Sam asks.

“Not yet.”

Sam hums and nods in assent. “Cool. I’m thinking of getting a sign to hand in the window. What do you think?”

That sets Bucky off, which he only belatedly realizes Sam must have intended. But Sam nods and hums and argues and just generally engages with Bucky’s strong opinions, and he feels almost settled by the time they reach the park.

He tosses the empty coffee cup in the trash on their way in and then shoves his hands in his pockets, unsure what else to do with them. They find Clint and spend an hour throwing balls for Lucky, Clint’s dog, and by the time Bucky heads home, he feels… good.

He wants to feel this good all the time.

But when he and Sam hesitate at the street where they need to head off in opposite directions, Bucky bites his tongue and doesn’t say what he’s been trying to work up the courage to say. Instead, he says, “See you tomorrow,” and Sam says it back, and they head off separately.

Bucky hates himself sometimes.

[ ](https://imgbox.com/KobhCxIn)

Bucky dreams that night about Sam’s lips curled in a smirk as they press against his own, of warm brown hands braced as they hold Sam’s weight up over Bucky’s body, of touches that are gentle and words that are teasing and when he wakes, he’s shaking with need.

He’s so screwed.

[ ](https://imgbox.com/5YnBl24L)

He isn’t sure he’ll be able to look Sam in the eye the next morning. Luckily, he’s up before dawn so he can get the morning’s baking done at the shop, and baking has always been stress relief for Bucky. He can’t hold on to a bad mood with the scent of cupcakes in the air, so he doesn’t even try.

When Sam unlocks the door and makes his way in just after seven, Bucky is almost done with his baking for the morning and has most of the store ready to open. His last task is just to brew his own terrible coffee, there exclusively to fool those who don’t know that the good stuff is next door—a number of customers that dwindles by the day.

Bucky can’t bring himself to be mad about it.

“How were the regulars?” he asks, just so he can watch Sam light up as he talks about the people who come into his shop right at sun up every morning, or ever few days, or every week at six am on the dot. He feels something warm and bubbly in his chest, like champagne—and not the cheap shit, either, that leaves a sharp feeling behind; the good shit that’s all warm and fades slowly into a pleasant burn.

God, Bucky doesn’t even drink anymore; but then, why would he need to when he can apparently get drunk just on Sam’s company?

Sam leaves with a brownie and a little more of Bucky’s heart. Bucky sips his out of season pumpkin drink, which is amazing, and tries not to think about how Sam made it specifically for him. Makes everything, now that he thinks of it, specifically to Bucky’s taste.

And like, Bucky has good taste. He knows what he likes and he’s not afraid to say it.

One very significant exception aside, apparently.

He sighs and goes to throw some cookies together. He needs the comfort right now.

[ ](https://imgbox.com/KobhCxIn)

Steve takes a bite of the stress cookies and says (with his mouth full because that’s just the kind of person he is—moments like this serve as such strong reminders of why Bucky is grateful they never dated), “There’s a concert at the bar Clint bartends at this Friday night. It’s a small indie band.”

It’s such an innocuous comment, except for a few important things that do not escape Bucky’s notice. One, Steve’s expression is too innocent and, underneath that veneer, too smug to mean anything good. Two, Bucky does not like indie bands. Three, Sam loves them.

“Oh?” Bucky asks. “Which band?”

Steve says a name that should mean nothing to Bucky, something about wailing and monkeys, but Bucky remembers having the same who would name their band that? train of thought when he first heard of them as Sam gushed about their new EP.

“You’re not nearly as subtle as you think,” Bucky gripes.

“I don’t bother with subtlety,” Steve says. “I just like it when you make that face.”

Bucky does not know what face he’s making, but it shifts quickly into his patented Murder Glare. Steve laughs, delighted. “I like that one, too,” he says, and then dashes out of the store with more speed and grace than his large body should be able to contain, cackling as he goes.

Bucky sometimes wonders why he’s friends with Steve, anyway.

(Okay, he doesn’t. He texts Clint and asks if he needs tickets for the band this weekend. Clint texts back, “I got you,” and attaches two comps in a pdf to an email a few minutes later.

Bucky has the best friends.)

[ ](https://imgbox.com/5YnBl24L)

Sam comes in again just after three with a coffee and a smile, and Bucky swallows down his pride and nervousness and tells himself that he can do this.

“Hey,” he greets, and then he promptly forgets how to make words.

Sam doesn’t appear to notice. He sets the coffee down in front of Bucky and crosses his arms, biceps straining the sleeves of his short-sleeved shirt, and Bucky’s mouth goes a little dry. He grabs the coffee and takes a sip to cover the moment.

“Oh shit, there’s no way it’s cider season,” Bucky blurts after he swallows the first taste of the drink. “Why are you making me fall flavored coffee?”

Sam shrugs. “Doesn’t seem like we should have to wait for fall to have all the good fall things. You seemed a little down this morning; I thought it might cheer you up.”

Bucky, who had not been down so much as feeling incredibly self-aware and nervous, doesn’t know what to say. After a moment, Sam raises an eyebrow and prompts, “Well?”

“It’s great,” Bucky says honestly. “It feels like a hug.” He wouldn’t say no to an actual hug, but that’s not the kind of friends they are. (Yet? His traitorous heart asks, and he swallows down the thought before it can grow into a desire. One thing at a time.)

Sam smiles, slow and warm. Bucky feels some of his icy, anxious tension melt away in response.

“So, uh,” Bucky starts. Stops. Fiddles with his apron. When he glances back up, Sam’s still just watching him, one eyebrow raised. When they first met, Bucky thought it was some kind of sardonic expression, but now he knows it’s just fondness underlined with steel—he’ll want to know what Bucky has to say, now that he’s started to say it, and won’t let him get away with not saying anything at all.

When did they become the kind of people who knew each other this well? (Shouldn’t that make this easier?)

“Steve was in here earlier,” Bucky says. Start with the facts, that’s good. “He told me that band you like, the monkeys one? Uh, they’re playing at Clint’s bar this weekend.” The facts are getting less accurate, fuck, and less specific too. Get it together Barnes, c’mon. “If you don’t have plans on Friday, I thought maybe you’d want to go?”

“With you and Steve?” Sam asks, eyes just the tiniest bit narrowed. That would make Bucky even more anxious, except he can tell Sam’s not annoyed by the way his jaw isn’t clenched; he’s just thinking intently, studying Bucky for clues to whatever problem he’s trying to solve.

Usually, Bucky hates that kind of scrutiny.

With Sam, he’s long stopped minding it. (If he’s honest, he kind of loves the single-minded focus; but that’s neither here nor there. And he doesn’t make a habit of being too honest with himself on a good day anyway.)

“Uh, no,” Bucky says. “Just—um, just with me. And I guess Clint would be there. Bartending. But not really with him either.”

Sam tilts his head, considering. His eyes are no longer narrowed, though; he’s figured out whatever he wanted to know. Now he’s just piecing everything together.

“You don’t like any of my indie bands,” Sam comments.

“No,” Bucky agrees. “I don’t. But you do. So…”

Sam hums. “Alright, Barnes. What night?”

“Friday,” Bucky says, and swallows thickly around the anxious knot in his throat. He can’t quite believe this is happening, that Sam sounds like he’s about to agree to this.

“Okay. I’ll meet you here when you get off work, okay? We can walk over together.”

“Uh…” Bucky’s brain is offline. He mentally smacks the computer server that must be attempting to run things, and it comes back online after a few moments. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Sam smirks a little. “Okay. See you tomorrow morning, Bucky.”

With that, he’s turned and walking away, humming quietly under his breath in a deep resonance that Bucky swears he can fell vibrate through his bones.

Fuck.

Did that actually happen?

It did, right?

Wait…

He replays the conversation in his head. Shit. At no point did he say it was a date. Does Sam know it’s a date? Should Bucky tell him?

He drops his head in his hands and groans. That’s tomorrow Bucky’s problem. Tonight Bucky is going to call Clint and see if he wants to play a mindlessly violent video game until their brains both stop whirring quite so hard, demolish a couple large pizzas between the two of them, and fall asleep on the couch at whoever’s place they decide to hang out in.

Tomorrow. He’ll figure it out tomorrow.

[ ](https://imgbox.com/KobhCxIn)

He doesn’t figure it out tomorrow.

He doesn’t figure it out Thursday, either, and by Friday it seems too late to ask.

He also doesn’t know what to… do? He thinks about giving Sam flowers, a wild thought at one in the morning as he’s having trouble sleeping, but there would be nowhere to put them, so they’d just get in the way. What else do you do to indicate that it’s a date? He doesn’t even want to dress up too fancy, because that’d make him stand out, which… no. Not doing that.

Instead, he wears a button up with croissants on it, a gift from Sam for his birthday last year—and at the time, he’d wondered how Sam had gotten his shirt size; he still suspects Steve had sold him out—which he hopes is not too much of a sign that he has feelings.

If he lets himself second guess it, he’ll be standing here in front of his closet all morning. So he doesn’t; he buttons up the shirt that still fits perfectly, and when he gets to the shop, carefully covers it with an apron so he won’t get it covered in flour or anything else.

He bakes cranberry muffins and chocolate chip cookies and fresh croissants that he started last night before he left, and when everything’s done, he’s just standing at the counter, counting down the minutes until Sam appears.

Sam brings him a raspberry latte and smiles a little extra when he tells Bucky good morning; he says, “Looking sharp, Barnes,” with a little wink.

Bucky wants to ask so bad if this is a date.

Instead, he takes a moment to examine what Sam’s wearing. He’s a little disappointed that it’s just a t-shirt and jeans. Like, yeah, he looks very nice—he always does—but it’s a mark in the Not Really a Date column.

Bucky’s a little deflated when Sam leaves, but he gets through the day by reminding himself that either way, they’re going out tonight together, and even if it’s not a date, Bucky loves spending time with Sam. It’s going to be great.

[ ](https://imgbox.com/5YnBl24L)

When Sam shows up just as Bucky’s finishing up wiping down the counter, he’s wearing different clothes.

Well, the jeans are the same, and yet somehow transformed by the maroon button up he’s now wearing. He looks good enough that Bucky’s mouth waters a little and his brain shuts down for a few long seconds.

When it kicks back on, it’s to the thought: …maybe a date?

A check in the date column, at least.

“Ready?” Sam asks. Bucky realizes he’s frozen in wiping down the counter.

“One sec,” he blurts, finishing that and trying desperately to collect himself as he does. When he’s done, he puts the last few things away and moves around the counter to the front of the shop. “Ready.”

He wants to take Sam’s hand, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed. For some reason, that makes him afraid that Sam will do it, so he shoves his hands deep in his pockets.

Sam’s eyes are warm and twinkling.

He’s probably excited about the band.

They walk down the street so close that their arms brush with each step, but it’s New York, they’ve gotta stand close if they don’t want to get yelled at for being “tourists” and clogging up the sidewalks. They make it in plenty of time to get a decent seat tucked away; they’ll still be able to hear the band, but Bucky hates being in the middle of a crowd, can’t help the prickle of unease that worsens as people jostle around behind him. Sam, thank fucking Christ, knows this, and he’s the one who moves confidently toward a table off to the side of the room.

Bucky offers to get drinks, heading to the bar to let Clint pull their beers for them. Clint’s busy, but apparently not so busy that he can’t take in Bucky and look past him to the table where Sam is sitting. “Hot date?” he asks, a sharp smile curving at his lips. He’s not being unfriendly; Clint’s just sharp, sometimes. Bucky usually loves that about him. Right now, he feels a little bit like there’s a knife pressed to his throat.

He opens his mouth to say no, but then doesn’t want to jinx it, so he thinks about saying yes, but doesn’t want to jinx it that way either. “Maybe,” he says finally. “We’ll see.”

Clint grins. “Good. Finally.” He pushes two beers and Bucky and waves away any attempt to pay, moving down the bar to deal with other customers before Bucky can protest.

Bucky heads back to the table a little uncertain, but Sam ropes him into a conversation about The Great British Baking Show, and it doesn’t take long for Bucky to relax. He almost doesn’t notice when Sam reaches out and takes his hand, except how he totally does. He doesn’t know what to do, so he does what feels right, and he laces their fingers together.

It takes about two slowly drunk beers until the band start to set up. Sam goes to get their third drinks, and Bucky fiddles with his phone. He shoots of a text to Steve telling him that it’s going well, promises to call late in the evening when he’s home.

The band is… mediocre, to Bucky’s tastes. But Sam looks so goddamn thrilled that Bucky doesn’t even mind; he has a great time just watching Sam sing along to the songs he knows and smile wide at the ones he doesn’t.

They’re both tipsy but not quite drunk when they leave a few hours later. “That was fun,” Bucky says, almost musing to himself.

“Pretty good first date,” Sam says near Bucky’s ear, because his arm’s thrown over Bucky’s shoulders and Bucky—

He forgets how to breathe for a moment when the words process, and then when he drags in his next breathe, it’s suddenly like the first time he’s breathed in days, months, the years since they first met.

“Oh,” he says, “so it was a date.”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, man, it was a date. I mean, that’s what I got from you, anyway. Tell me if I misread things…”

“No,” Bucky says immediately. “I wanted it to be a date.”

“Good.”

Sam’s quiet as they walk the rest of the way to the metro. “Do you want to go on another one, then?” he asks. “Can’t guarantee it’ll be this good, but I’m willing to chance it.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, feeling warm and light. “I’d love to.”

They don’t talk much on the metro; part ways at their usual corner. But Sam does lean in this time, one warm palm cupping Bucky’s face, and kiss him soft and deep for a few moments before pulling back. “Night Bucky,” he murmurs against Bucky’s lips, and Bucky thinks maybe he’s died and gone to heaven, but that’s A-okay with him.

He does remember to call Steve before he falls asleep, but by the next morning he has no idea what he even said. Embarrassing things, probably, so it’s better that he doesn’t remember.

He feels like he’s buzzing as he bakes, as he cleans and opens, as he glances toward the door every ten seconds waiting for Sam to appear. When Sam does, Bucky feels the smile overtake his face.

“Good morning.”

Sam grins. “Morning.”

Bucky takes a sip of the coffee Sam hands him, and it’s his perfect coffee drink, out of season and everything. He hums, closing his eyes. When he opens them, Sam’s eyes are warm and intent on his face. “Can I kiss you?” he asks.

Bucky sets the drink down hurriedly; it’s good but nothing’s that good. “Yes,” he says, face already tilting up.

It’s better than the drink. It’s so good. When they part, Sam says, “Tonight? Nothing fancy, I just…” he shrugs, a little sheepish but still grinning, “I like spending time with you.”

“Tonight,” Bucky echoes, nodding. “Can’t wait.”

When Sam leaves, Bucky can feel himself smiling disgustingly. He can’t wait for Steve to stop by and call him on it. He can’t wait for Sam to pick him up from work and take him on a date.

He can’t believe this is how things turned out; he remembers, vividly, his ire when Sam opened shop next door. He takes another sip of his coffee and sighs.

This is so much better than anything he could have known to expect.

The End


End file.
